


sometimes goodbye (the gimme more dignity mix)

by nothingbutfic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5037202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/nothingbutfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where have all the good men gone, and where are all the gods?</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes goodbye (the gimme more dignity mix)

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the Late Bloomer Challenge 2006. Inspired by a couple of songs – the title refers chiefly to U2’s Numb (gimme more dignity mix), and is sort of injokey about the fact this is the fourth version of this fic (in which Neville gets more dignity). As for the summary, well. Holding Out For A Hero made me go ‘oh, that’s the point of the fic!’ which is why there is a fourth version that worked. I think. Many thanks for florahart for the beta.

1: Andante.  
  
The library is dark at night. For all that the lamps do shine, the shadows seem to eat up the light, and the tall stacks of books loom over every visitor. The smell of musty old parchment hangs in the air, and leather, and wood varnish, and the occasional cough or creak caused by another student doesn’t do anything to alleviate the jitters Neville feels. If anything, Madam Pince makes it worse, stalking around with a candle in its holder, and turning abruptly to gaze down each narrow aisle, equally narrow glasses pinching her nose as she stares coldly at anyone who dares actually use a book.  
  
When it is his turn, Neville doesn’t even bother looking up. He doesn’t meet that gaze because he can’t face it: it’s not that he’s a bad wizard, he knows. He doesn’t have a problem with the theory, or the reading, although he’s no Hermione, and not even close to Ravenclaw. He’s thorough in his research, careful, because he knows he’s liable to stuff it all up – not despite it. He’s had to struggle for everything, to plod – and so, if he’s a plodder, he’ll be a plodder and not give up. Magic is not a problem; it’s the people. Neville knows that now he’s touched the heart of power, everyone expects him to fail, and for all the preparation he puts in, it seems he can’t stop meeting everyone’s expectations in that regard.  
  
So he prepares more, studies harder, plots and charts and reads until his head is swimming with words. He thinks he knows how to help Harry; he’s sure of it, but all too well, whenever he tries something, that surety slips from his grasp. Besides, people who speaks of certainties are usually on very shaky ground, so Neville does his reading, says his prayers, and expects everything to all go to hell when he tries it.  
  
He knows the answer; he has it – he can do this, he can  _be of use_. But still, he wonders and worries that he’s missed something, and rather than take a chance on being right, he continues to read. He doesn’t need to find something, that’s true. He just needs to find out  _about_  it.  
  
Gillyweed is the answer; gillyweed is his personal grail. He isn’t stupid, he isn’t slow, but he is very thorough. He knows it’s the thing Harry needs, from all those hints Professor Moody gave him, and he  _can_  read. Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean even has illustrations, bright and colourful, and yet, Neville feels it’s too easy, somehow. Professor Moody thrust the book at him like it was a lifesaver, and left with his familiar stomping gait, few words having been exchanged. Still, if Harry uses gillyweed, it won’t be professor Moody who gave it to him, but Neville, and so Neville spends a sunny Saturday in the cramped and dark confines of the school library, easy prey for Madam Pince and her gaze.  
  
“The Library is closing in an hour,” she intones. Neville finally manages to summon the courage to turn his face in her direction and stammers out a ‘thankyou’. Fortunately, he is just another student beneath her notice, and after he turns back to his copy of Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean, the candlelight trails onward, and his aisle is back to plain old lamplight again.  
  
Neville breathes a sigh of relief, and turns the page. He is surrounded by books. Research is not a problem; he is sure, steady, and determined to get through every single one. Their spines speak of herbology, of human transmogrification, of counterspell and unusual coincidence and exception. Gillyweed may be routine; sadly, Harry Potter is anything but, and Neville will check until he is sure his friend is safe from side effect, mystical convergence, or anything but random act of God. Magical Water Plants of the Meditterranean sits amongst all of them, king amongst his resources, pages open to this very particular plant, and Neville cross-references everything the book says with all the other books that litter his reading space, just in case there’s something he missed.  
  
The words blur as the night wears on, and he has been there for hours already. The lamplight diffuses as his eyes fall shut, and the next thing Neville feels is a gentle hand on his shoulder shaking him awake.  
  
“I’m sorry Madam Pince,” he squeaks, and instantly starts closing the covers of the books that lay open about him. He’s going to get in trouble for this, he knows; trouble is the one certainty in his life.  
  
But Madam Pince wouldn’t be so gentle, and the hand moves to ruffle his hair instead. “It’s alright, Longbottom. Although there’s ten minutes left; I thought you should know.” The voice that speaks to him is warm, kind and humorous; the sort of person that thinks that the world is not a joke, but must be appreciated. Neville knows that voice, of course. Everyone does.  
  
Neville turns half way, and sure enough, brown eyes regard him with the sort of calm generosity that makes Neville feel like he’s the only person in the world right now. “Thanks,” he gets out, and blushes a little, because this is Cedric Diggory, and he probably shouldn’t be chatting with the enemy.  
  
Cedric’s eyes scan his face for a moment, and then they move on to the books that circle him. He takes in open pages, titles on spines, illustrations, and Neville feels his gaze get a little more heated as if he’s been caught doing something wrong.  
  
“Ah,” Cedric says, sounding chipper but a little sad. “I don’t mean to butt in, but that’s the book I’ve been looking for.” Neville follows his glance, and there it is, outstretched: Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean.    
  
The fronds wave on the illustration, and Cedric leans over him to tap the paper; the realism of the illusion is disturbed, as Neville half expects the plant to react. Still, he’s acutely aware of Cedric now; the faint odour of his aftershave, the curve of his jaw, dotted with stubble. And the thick dark brown hair that hangs over his collar in little curls. Cedric leans, hand sliding over the page, almost caressing the information, and then he glances back at Neville.  
  
There’s a moment where their eyes focus on each other’s mouths, realising just how very close they are, and Cedric’s lips part a little as he wets them with his tongue. A bead of cold sweat runs down behind Neville’s ear, and his hands suddenly feel clammy.  
  
“Gillyweed,” Cedric tells him, and he has Neville’s answer.  
  
“Gillyweed,” Neville affirms, and doesn’t take his eyes from Cedric’s.  
  
Cedric smiles, and leans back a little. “Good solution. Potter’s lucky to have friends like you, Longbottom.”  
  
All shyness falls from Neville’s mind at this point; he’s too surprised to be shy. “You know my name?” he gapes at the older boy, and probably takes three attempts to say it in his shock.  
  
“Of course I do, Longbottom. Sorry, it’s Neville, really, isn’t it?” he asks, all affable charm and politeness and Neville gapes a little bit further, leaning back in shock despite the fact there’s not a lot of space to lean in, between the shelving to read on and the books themselves and Cedric pressed up so close and slightly off to the side.  
  
Cedric rightly sees that Neville wants more explanation, and so he leans a little closer, free arm moving to Neville’s other side, so Neville just tries to get comfortable against the shelf and blinks confusedly up at the young man who’s now got his caged between his arms. “Everyone knows you, or should,” Cedric explains, and Neville’s heart falls at that. His chin dips down, because he doesn’t want Cedric to be patient and kind and understanding, not about this. Of course everyone should. He is, after all, a confirmed disaster area; he’s sure Ravenclaws flee on sight, Hufflepuffs walk the other side of the passageways and Slytherins have started a petition to have him barred from school due to threat of lethal ineptitude.  
  
“I mean,” Cedric continues, and reaches to tip Neville’s chin back up so all Neville can see is the fringe of dark brown hair, those gentle eyes, and handsome mouth. “It’s not everyone who can help their house win the Cup.”  
  
“I did- Oh,” he stops, because he was about to respond to a completely different statement. “I thought you meant people know about my clumsiness.”  
  
“So?” Cedric shrugs. “You should have seen me in first year. Not everyone can be Potter straight off the bat.”  
  
Neville remembers exactly why he’s here. Exactly why  _they’re_  here. “Right. But he’s Harry.”  
  
“Yes, he’s Harry. You can’t exactly hate him.” The twist to Cedric’s mouth seems a little rueful; there’s a slight flush to his creamy skin that Neville can’t quite decipher. Then his eyes refocus on Neville. “But I was talking about you.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yes.” He leans in, pinning Neville directly between his body and the shelf. “Don’t worry. You can keep the book. I’ll trust it’s safe and you don’t want to kill Potter. Just get out of here in five minutes; I wouldn’t want to leave you to Madam Pince’s tender mercies.”  
  
He’s gone quick enough in a flash of robes, and a hint of yellow and black, rich brown hair, and warm, warm eyes. He’s fast, surely; fast and flexible, but then, he is a Seeker. Neville can’t even look at a broom without thinking of people laughing at him.  
  
Neville clutches the copy of Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean to his chest like it needs protection, even though Cedric swears he won’t be after it now. He probably won’t be, either; he doesn’t need to cross check everything to the nth degree, to dot his i’s and cross his t’s. Not like Neville does. He trusts Neville’s judgement, when Neville doesn’t trust his own. Cedric will use the gillyweed, and he’ll win, and all because Neville had a book open and couldn’t resist a handsome young man. Madam Pince appears and hisses out a dismissal, and so, dismissed, he goes. Aftershave lingers in the air.  
  
  
2: Allegretto.  
  
The second task has come and gone, and Neville was glad for the outcome. Hogwarts has two champions, and so far, things look to stay that way. Neville would rather they team up, pool their resources – but there is only one Triwizard Cup, and only one winner. He does get the math, even if the rivalry leaves him a little despondent. He spends most of the time with himself, wandering the grounds and going over Herbology primers in his head. He tries to keep his head down, stay low – he doesn’t want Professor Moody to start slipping him hints again. He doesn’t want to be  _responsible._  
  
And so, on a relatively clear Spring afternoon, Neville approaches a small hillock not too far from the greenhouses, and audibly stops in shock when Cedric Diggory saunters over the crest of the hill and grins at him. “Hullo,” he calls, upbeat.  
  
“You didn’t use it,” Neville blurts out, instantly, and then recoils – the one thing he did not want to say. Cedric moves to stand in front of him, and when some other Hufflepuff boys come over the rise, he holds out a hand behind him to ward them away. They stop, muttering to one another: Neville can see Smith amongst them, and they hang back, even if they don’t seem to want to.  
  
Cedric’s lips curl into a grin as he keeps his eyes on Neville, and he folds his arms over his chest almost smugly, expression patiently waiting for some elaboration.  
  
“I just meant – you didn’t use the gillyweed. I thought maybe – that you might of.” His voice sounded cowed, even to him.  
  
“If I had, and Harry and I had used the same techniques, that would have made everything worse, don’t you think? Besides, I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”  
  
“Oh.” Neville can tell his face is the very picture of befuddlement. “But – I mean, I didn’t use it either.” He shuffles from foot to foot, and urgently hopes Cedric’s friends wish to talk to him.  
  
But instead a firm hand grips his chin – not for the first time – and Cedric yells something over his shoulder about clearing off that disperses the gathered Hufflepuffs. “Now,” he says, pleasantly, “what do you mean?”  
  
“Harry used gillyweed,” confirms Neville. “He just didn’t get the idea from me.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell him?” Cedric asks, thumb stroking across Neville’s jaw.  
  
“I – I didn’t want to tell him I’d been talking to you, because I was sure you were going to use it, and I – didn’t want to steal  _your_  thunder,” he admits.  
  
Cedric stares at him, and then bursts out laughing, hugging Neville to him in an impetuous clasp of bodies that knocks the wind out of Neville and makes him aware very suddenly that Cedric’s more interested in him than he realised. They part bashfully, with clearing of throats and straightening of robes, and a certain casual avoidance of each other’s gaze.  
  
“Well,” Cedric says. “Thanks, I guess.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Neville replies, almost formally, and that earns him another chuckle and a ruffle to his hair.  
  
“I remember what you did in first year, Neville. Standing up to your friends still – and your enemies. For you it seems that bravery and loyalty might as well be the same word. You would have made a good Hufflepuff.”  
  
“I’m happy where I am!” Neville tells him earnestly, and Cedric’s eyes narrow to focus on his mouth.  
  
“Well,” Cedric breathes, hand cupping Neville’s chin once more, and reels him in closer. “I suppose that’s good enough for you,” he breathes against Neville’s lips, and then catches them with his own in a kiss that’s short and sweet and lingers as Cedric pulls back.  
  
“Wish me luck in the third task?”  
  
“Oh,” Neville answers automatically. “Of course. Good luck.”  
  
Another crushing hug. “Come see me next year, eh? You’ll understand.”  
  
“Right,” Neville nods, and watches Cedric saunter on, past him, over the next hill and beyond. It’s just a hill, after all. But Cedric is a champion, and Neville isn’t. He feels like a gulf yawns open between them.  
  
  
3: Prestissimo.  
  
Zacharias Smith is crying, Neville discovers. The young Hufflepuff – not so young, perhaps, Neville’s age, except he looks so much younger with his eyes puffy from sobbing and his face crumpled with emotion and his body all huddled up in the corner of one of the gardens, perched on a bench.  
  
“Go away,” Smith tells him, without even bothering to find out whose footfalls have been approaching over the crisp grass.  
  
“I’m sorry, I just thought-”  
  
“Oh.” Zacharias lifts his head and stares at him. Red-rimmed eyes just seem to add to the faint air of madness that he wears. His blond hair is all messy, although Neville doesn’t know enough about him to know if that’s normal or not, and his tie is askew, along with most of his robes. “It’s  _you_.”  
  
Well, yes. Try as he might, Neville can’t be anyone else but himself. “I just wanted to say-” he begins, but Zacharias cuts him off and rails at that too.  
  
“That you’re  _sorry_?” he sneers, and Neville recoils in disgust at the naked hatred on that face. “You don’t think I haven’t heard that? You think it makes some kind of difference?”  
  
“It’s just that he was your friend and I wanted to say I was sorry that he’s gone.”  
  
“He’s not gone,” Zacharias spits, and all the pain in the world is in those hazel-green eyes. “It’s not like he stepped out to go to the loo,” he continues, and Neville flinches at his anger. “He’s dead. Say it. He’s dead.”  
  
“He’s dead,” Neville breathes, and it’s almost some kind of release.  
  
“He’s dead and you  _fucking_  Gryffindors couldn’t save him.” His voice is weaker now, choked over with loss and grief. “He used to talk about you. He used to ask me why I had to be so angry, why I had to make a fight out of everything, why I had to always have a cause and an enemy. He told me I should be more like you – brave and loyal and true, but you didn’t save him and neither did I.” The last is almost a croak, and Zacharias sinks back into his relentless sorrow again, gaze drifting away from Neville.  
  
“No-one could have,” Neville tries to reassure him, tries to assuage some of that rage, but it only gets Zacharias’ burning gaze turned on him again. “Not even-”  
  
“Potter?” Zacharias scoffs, and for once Neville wishes he was allowed to finish a sentence. “No, of course not, how could we ever expect him to do  _anything_?”  
  
“Smith, this isn’t really-”  
  
“I’m angry because I  _care_ ,” Zacharias tells him, tone deadly serious. “What do  _you_  care, Longbottom? What do you show? Why aren’t you  _crying_?”  
  
“Because he’s not the first, and he won’t be the last, and I can’t cry for them all.” Neville’s left looking stunned at his sheer gall, but it does seem to have cowed Zacharias, who sits huddled and broken again, fire quenched. Neville wheels himself around and starts to walk away; anything than let this continue.  
  
“He used to talk about you all the fucking  _time_ ,” Zacharias growls out behind him, and Neville keeps his back straight as he walks around and pretends the words don’t pierce his heart.  
  
  
4: Lento.  
  
Neville stares down at the object in his hand. There’s a disconnect; he can’t quite wrap his head around it, despite the fact it’s definitely there, and he is holding it, and he’s there and holding it. Everything seems faintly unreal, and he’s not sure if he wants it to be a dream or not.  
  
It’s a photo. Nothing special in that; not even magical. It’s a photo of him. Nothing special in that, for all that he typically tries to stay off the record as much as possible. It’s a photo of him crying, side on – the angle isn’t good and the lighting less than flattering, but it’s clear he’s sitting in the grounds of Hogwarts and falling apart.  
  
“Nothing special in that,” he tells Colin, and hands the photo back. Everything still seems not quite there. “A lot of people cried when Cedric died.” He’s impressed at how his voice doesn’t shake.  
  
“That was taken a week after he died,” Colin tells him softly. “I thought – I don’t know, maybe you liked him or something. At any rate, thought I’d give it to you. Didn’t want to destroy it; didn’t want someone like Malfoy to get a hold on it. Don’t worry, the negative’s history.”  
  
“Thanks,” Neville says, still not quite there, and tucks the photo in his shirt pocket, where it seems to burn. “And –  _liked_  him?”  
  
Colin blushes a little at the inquiry, but then he did set himself up for it. “You know. Like I like Harry,” he explains, and blushes more. “Everyone’s got to have a hero.”  
  
Hero. That’s what Cedric was to him, Neville supposes. Not perfect, but better: better because he knew his flaws and tried because of them, not despite them. Brave and loyal and true. “But Cedric’s gone, now. You know, he wanted us to all be heroes.”  
  
“Don’t know about that,” Colin replies, and sounds scared by the prospect.  
  
“Do you think you’ll ever tell Harry you like him?” Neville asks, polite but blunt, and Colin all but wets himself.  
  
“Nah, not me. Harry’s the sun, you know?” Colin stumbles through the analogy. “We all share in his light and stuff, but you don’t get too close, or you get burned. ‘S not worth it,” he states, but the need in his eyes belies the words.  
  
Everyone’s a hero, he muses to himself, and thinks of a cooling body lying on the dirt, and his parents tottering around St. Mungo’s like they might make sense someday. Everyone’s a hero because we all have to be.  
  
“Well,” Neville sighs, and leans over to brush his lips over Colin’s forehead like some kind of sacrament. “I suppose that’s good enough for you.”  
  
“Eh?”  
  
“Maybe next year, when you’re a little older,” Neville tells him, “you’ll understand.”


End file.
